


well one of us is gonna have to change

by jukain



Series: the one where there's actually medical professionals [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Subtext, T for swearing, author knows the feel entirely too well, author's evil plan to get connor some HELP, gratuitous use of personal knowledge on therapy, mention of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukain/pseuds/jukain
Summary: Hank isn't used to when something involving therapy isn't about him. he's not sure he likes it.





	well one of us is gonna have to change

“Lieutenant, when you have a minute I need to have a word with you.”

_It's too fucking early for this kind of conversation._

Hank blearily glances over at the man in question, the DPD mental health expert tag-along and general nuisance, Nick Morgan. The quirky therapist or something who was always a _little off_ in his behavior, always a little _too dead on the mark_ with his speech. Now,  Clara, his partner? Clara was a goddamn _blessing_ and both knew when to talk and when to keep silent with her work. She always said what was necessary and didn't bother forcing small talk. Clara was an absolute fucking _delight_ and her being able to patch up everyone's various cuts and bruises (Connor's) was a solid bonus.

Nick, on the other hand... Hank hated talking to the guy _with_ company (how Nick had managed to so easily sync himself conversationally with Connor was beyond him), much less in private.

Having his title for a reason and despite the constant protests of the younger detectives, Hank could clearly see the cohesion in Nick's posture, but his feigned casual appearance. Crossing his arms just so as to appear serious but not stiff. Truly a man of the psychobabble profession; Hank solved murders for a living, another one of these guys trying to worm his way into Hank's mental space was borderline sad. He had enough of counseling and counselors involving him and his plethora of unresolved issues that he could remedy not in a stuffy, too-clean office, _thank you._

“Business or pleasure?” Hank quips with only _some_ heat since neither Connor nor Clara are there to make him feel bad about it, stopping briefly at his desk to unceremoniously toss an impressively stuffed file onto the surface. He'd have to take it back to evidence later.

“Connor.”

Hank freezes, hand braced on the back of of his chair. He says nothing for a solid couple seconds, before lifting his attention to Nick. The facade is gone and what Hank sees instead is a man on some kind of mission, weary with experience and holding his stare with the same sort of trained neutrality he recognizes in himself, reflected by the bathroom mirror in his home after a particularly grueling case-- and often times in Connor, at any point.

Nick turns, still meeting Hank's gaze for another beat, before heading down the nearby hallway and entering an empty meeting room without another word.

Feeling something heavy, sick, and all around unpleasant buzzing in his stomach, Hank follows.

 

“Just so you're aware, there's fuckall as far as official procedures go for this, since there's basically nothing in any of my departments about androids or treatments for them,” Nick says as soon as Hank breaks the threshold of the room, the both of them pulling up their respective chairs to the conference table, on opposing sides. “In all technicality, I'm not bound by any sort of law that would otherwise prevent me from sharing sensitive information regarding androids, to, well, anyone.”

Hank is already on edge and hates where Nick is going, but experience and instinct tells him that the psycho-therapist whatever is attempting to _strongly hint_ that he can share information on Connor, to him. _It better only be me._

“Okay, just-- cut out all the pointless chatter and get to the point.” Hank says sharply, suppressing his early morning and also general irritability for the sake of diplomacy (and getting away from someone with a doctorate on dissecting his feelings), “What about Connor did you want to talk to me about?”

Nick releases a slow exhale, appearing thoughtful. If there was one saving grace about any talk with this guy, Hank admitted with moderate reluctance, it was that he clearly divided work and casual talk and treated the former with the utmost seriousness Hank imagined a professional would.

“I'm telling you this in lieu of... well, documented family, I suppose.” Nick leans back into his chair a little. “I give Connor all the same talks and respect of privacy that I would with any of my human patients, including getting his consent to share everything I'm going to say here, with you.”

“You've been talking to him already?” Hank asks lowly, feeling unease prickle at his skin. “Why am I just _now_ hearing about this?” _Doctor-Patient confidentiality_ , his logic helpfully provides, which his emotions hate.

“Because I have both a reason to bring you into the situation, as well as Connor's formal consent to do so.” Nick answers easily, “My work isn't meant to be public knowledge, you know. Me working with the police doesn't change how I operate. It just makes it... interesting.”

Hank can feel his blood pressure rising, and he isn't sure if it's because of Nick's attitude or because of his own growing anxiety over why the psychologist found it necessary to bring whatever he's found to Hank's attention. Both, likely.

“But I digress. I won't waste any more of your time.” Something in Nick changes, turns cool, and he folds his hands on the desk in a way that Hank absolutely loathes that reminds him of some hotshot in management, but he makes no mention of it.

“After speaking with Connor and running through the same intake screenings, though modified for him specifically, it's my professional opinion that Connor should be formally admitted into specialized therapy, with myself. He exhibits symptoms of psychological trauma not unlike those I've diagnosed with PTSD, on top of unhealthy behaviors and coping mechanisms that I believe are going to be dangerous for him long-term.” Hank doesn't get the chance to breathe properly, let alone react, as Nick continues on, “To put it simply: I feel that Connor's continued work with the DPD, with his person-hood still fragile and developing, and with no mental health support, is going to lead him to eventual self-destruction. I want to prevent that.”

“Wait-- fucking _wait_ a second!” Hank snaps angrily, raising a hand to silence the other man. Nick watches him. “After seeing you come in and out of god-knows-where for weeks, dicking around the office and running into shit, you're telling me _you_ want to be Connor's therapist? _Connor_ , who sometimes still forgets he's a _person_? You know, the kid still struggling in every emotional department?”

Nick is quiet for a moment, as though allowing Hank's words to hang between them, and somehow that absence of reaction makes Hank feel more ill than anything else (he knew, but it was still hard to hear).

“Yes, that is exactly what I'm saying. And precisely why I'm saying it.” His words are calm, clipped, so _practiced_ that Hank wants to lash out for no _actual_ reason.

He's doing his job and he isn't _wrong_ , Hank knows, but this is _Connor_ he's talking about. Connor, who could take down an entire entourage of armed guards barehanded before any of them could get out a single word, who got overwhelmed by the sight of a fenced-in group of lab puppies all eagerly yipping and bouncing for his attention (the kid almost started crying).

Connor who had apparently been killed or scrapped, or whatever CyberLife wants to call it, 50 times previously before beginning to work with the police, who still sometimes seemed lost in his own head and stopped moving for a solid half hour before blinking back into reality. Who didn't always speak about androids as people, who was so, so desperate to please and had difficulty facing the idea of his own mortality despite being so flippant about his injuries--

Fuck this guy, _fuck him_ , sitting there with his bullshit sympathetic expression Hank can't tell is genuine or not. Seeing right through Hank and watching like some kind of voyeur at his realization as it unfolded. And being right. That too.

“I want to help him. More than anything, I want to help him.” Nick says, and he sounds so earnest but Hank can't tell. He really can't (he remembers Clara, remembers how she so openly adores her adoptive brother and fusses over him at every chance). “It's going to be new for the both of us. I'm going to employ similar techniques from both CBT as well as CPT to do what I can to help him. A lot of his stress reactions, his fears, his behaviors... they're familiar to me. I've seen them before, so it's not like I'm jumping into this blind... but I'm not so naive as to automatically assume I can treat him the same way I can with a human. I'll start him on a once weekly appointment basis and change it as needed.”

Hank inhales heavily, running a hand through his hair for a third time. He knows some of the counseling process. Not all of it, and he was less than amicable at the time, but he at least has what scraps of knowledge he left with. A static program. He could work with that. Connor would most definitely work with that.

“And he agreed to it?” Hank finds his voice to be quiet, a little exhausted. It's barely 6 am and he's already done with the day.

He expects Nick to give him some sort of smartass, long-winded explanation and is surprised when the response he receives is a simple “Yes.” Which leaves Hank nothing to go off of. Fuck this guy.

He almost hates himself for laughing, even if it's a painful and forced sound. He doesn't know how else to react. “Working with the DPD my ass. You were here for Connor this whole time, weren't you?”

Nick breaks his composure and smiles a little crookedly. A little honestly. A little sadly.

“I feel like Clara should have made that obvious. There isn't anyone else here that needs a technician of her expertise. And don't say it like that, you make me sound like a contract killer.” All semblance of I-am-the-Doctor leaves him all at once and then it's just weird little Nick sitting across from him, bouncing his leg with nervous energy. Connor had recently picked up that habit.

“But you're going to help him, yeah?” He asks despite the question being extremely redundant. Maybe he just personally needs the reassurance. He's gotten kind of attached to the kid slash killing machine he'd been partnered with and doesn't want to see him broken any further.

“With everything I have,” Nick replies and it's so open and almost tangibly emotional that Hank finds himself momentarily stunned. “I don't like seeing anyone suffer, and seeing him hurting so silently in a world where there isn't any help for him, not in the way he needs... honestly, it _infuriates_ me. This should have never been able to happen, not to anyone.”

Hank watches the man speak, watches his eyes meet his at specific, almost timed points. Watches him smoothly transition from one emotional stance to another with his tangents. His leg continues to bounce with a small shuffling noise.

“You better keep me updated, then.” Hank says with finality, standing. “Connor has a bad habit of leaving out important details, _especially_ when it comes to his own safety. And if fucking _anything_ happens that pushes him too far, you 'll be dealing with me for the foreseeable future, or at least until I'm done kicking your ass.”

Nick laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His crows feet were more apparent when he was in a humorous mood.

“You'll have to take it up with Clara, for when she's done slapping around my corpse. She called dibs on killing me first.” He stands as well, sticking his hands into his pockets. “But I appreciate your cooperation, either way. Communication makes everything pan out better.”

“Yeah, sure.”

 

Connor only looks mildly alarmed when Hank emerges from nowhere (the hallway), and Clara gives the detective a gentle pat on the shoulder before he bolts off and descends upon the man. The medical android left behind shakes her head, equal parts amused and incredulous. She catches Nick's gaze as he approaches her, her face dropping.

“It looked like it went well. Did it go well? Did you insult him at all?” Clara inquires with a slight edge of demand.

“You're so mean to me, you know I take my work seriously.” She pinches his arm and he startles.

“I know you do, but this is bigger than both of us. This is really, really out of our league and that worries me.” Her tone is hushed, almost frightened. “ _And_ I worry for him. He's so young but has been through entirely too much. He needs every kindness he can get.”

Hank had apparently decided Connor had assaulted him with concerns and apologizes for long enough and rested both hands on his shoulders, anchoring him. Grounding him.

Nick merely nods, knowing Clara sees the motion from the corner of her vision and understands his intent. She holds her hand at the square of his back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a basic bitch psychology major but rest assured i have GREAT FIRSTHAND EXPERIENCE with too much shit and tried to keep it as realistic yet vague as possible, taking the game's granted liberties where i can do what i want bc there's no law saying i can't. hell yeah


End file.
